Each Day Sleepwalking and Each Night Dreaming

The shop was so quiet, Jean swore he could hear the electric clock, which he eyed with trepidation as it ticked on and on, finally reaching 5:00 P.M. The instant the clock turned over, he rose from an old, ragged stool and sauntered over to the front door of the shop, flipping the sign delicately from open to closed. He let out a sigh.

“Another slow day. I don’t think even a single person came in.”

His colleague, Mike, who seemed amused, replied. “Look on the bright side, Jean, we’re getting another day’s pay without any work.” He looked intently in the mirror, fixing his hair as if preparing for a night out, missing the languid visage before him. “Think about it, man. Who else gets paid just to sit around and daydream?”

Jean could not lift his gaze from the floor; the weight of the world pulling down on his cheeks. “I don’t know, man, I’m not sure I can do this much longer."

Now he had Mike’s attention, or so he thought. “What do you mean?”

By now, the two had made their way out of the shop. “I mean, this sucks. We sit around all day and do nothing. It feels pointless.” There was a long pause. “I hate it.”

Mike, apparently in a mindless stupor, was silent. Jean feared for a moment that something was wrong, but he realized quickly that Mike was daydreaming; he never cared. Wrath took hold of him; he had been ignored for the last time. He would have liked to speak his mind, but Mike spoke first.

“I’m wearing clown shoes.”

Struck by the absurdity, Jean forgot what he was going to say, but not his anger. He looked down.

“Oh my goodness, man, what is wrong with you!? How could you go out like that? I mean, those have to be size 18 shoes! UGH.”

Mike stayed quiet; he may have been drooling.

Jean, furious at the man before him, finally let loose: “You know what, screw this. Screw you. Screw this job. I quit.”

Mike heard that. “What?”

“You heard me, Mike, don’t expect to see me again!”

And with that, Jean was on his way home, denying Mike even a glance over his shoulder. Animated by his act of rebellion, Jean continued his march down the road, angry still that he should have wasted his time and talents on such a miserable place working with such miserable people. Naturally, some semblance of joy would find its way to his heart, finally freed from his shackles, but if only he knew what fate would befall him, he would have surely looked for a new master.

Such things could not trouble him now, though. Still bursting with intensity, Jean decided, for the first time, to stop at a bar he had usually passed on his way from work, promising free drinks to the gaggle of alcoholics that frequented the bar at 5:15.

A man grabbed Jean by the shoulder, something so putrid and foul in his breath that as he spoke, Jean felt his eyes well up and his throat close, but a keen politeness compelled the suppression of the body’s natural urge to wince and gag.

“ sssssso tttell me boyyyy, what are we celebrating?!”

Jean pursed his lips and held his breath, quite literally clearing the air before stating, matter-of-factly, that he had quit his job. Naturally, there was an uproarious cheer from the drunkards. After a moment, the cheer had subsided to murmurs, and a voice cut through the noise. It was Mike, whom Jean had failed to notice until now. With a new lucidity, he spoke.

“Well, what are you going to do now?” he said.

Jean felt as though he might faint, the blood rushing from his face. He had been so rude to Mike just minutes ago, and here the man was, staring him face-to-face. Naturally, he was taken aback by Mike's presence, but he was even more taken aback by his question. It was probably the first time Mike had asked a genuine question, and one that ought to have had an obvious answer too, but being so fresh off the heels of such a monumental change, Jean had failed to give it any thought. The room fell quiet, every red nose comported itself well enough that they might hear even a whisper. Jean began to mutter:

“Well, I have some money saved up, maybe I’ll travel a bit, or…or I’ll start a business or something.”

Mike retorted, calmly but with venom. “Do you even like traveling? You’ve never mentioned it, haven’t mentioned any business ideas either.”

“Oh, like you would know! You haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said this whole year!”

Jean would have preferred to let his rage continue to speak for him, but alas, Mike was right. Jean never thought of traveling and had no interest in business. In this moment, he was quite struck by his own feelings. In this moment, one that should have felt like sublime freedom, he found himself once again but a drone in a swarm, following the commands and desires of others. He had done this so completely, and for so long, that he had entirely forgotten who he was and what he loved. Each ambition, desire, yearning, and striving was simply not his own but a conditioning placed upon him by the world. He had aspired to and inspired nothing, and in this solemn moment, he felt as though he had been completely destroyed. His face in his hands, he whispered.

“What should I do?”

Here, the bartender, feeling an unusual pity, spoke up.

“You’re young kid, you’ve got plenty of time. Just do something. You’ll find your way eventually.”

Jean, not moved, looked down and to his right. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing. Just something.”

The bartender again: “Listen, kid, I think I know how you’re feeling right now, you just realized you been living life all wrong, huh? Dead-end job, deadbeat coworkers (no offense by the way), one-way road. Sure, it sucks, but you ought to be happy you figured it out before you wound up like one of these guys.” Now motioning to the patrons of the bar. This time, he offered no apology. None was offended, for those who were sober enough to understand knew it to be true, and the rest could hardly speak.

“I suppose so.”

The bartender had one more thing to say: “So long as you have tomorrow, well, you’ll have tomorrow. It’s never over like we think it is.”

Though again, Jean’s heart had failed to be moved. He felt distinctly that the bartender was wrong. He spent his days sleepwalking and his nights dreaming. It almost felt as though his entire life had been a dream, and he shuddered to think whose dream it really was.

…

The electric clock ticked on and on, finally reaching 5:00 A.M., whereby a nasty chime would wake Mike from his slumber. He would immediately reach for his phone, spending the first 20 minutes of his day on Instagram, forgetting all about Jean and the crisis that had befallen him that night. After a while, Mike finally found the strength to rise from his bed and brush his teeth. He made his morning coffee and took the bus to work, arriving, somehow, 15 minutes late. He took inventory, but more, he took his time, looking about, wishing without wishing, for something else. He toiled and toiled, trudging through the boredom, finding, in passing moments, solace in scrolling, concerned only with content; if only he had given any attention to Jean, how might he have been instructed? But what will become of a man who spends each day sleepwalking and each night dreaming? Will he aspire to or inspire anything? Only one thing can be said for certain: Mike never cared.